


Discorporation Drama

by Adzeisval



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bit of History, Gen, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), I swear, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love these idiots, Temporary Character Death, also some funny parts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 02:36:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19898473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adzeisval/pseuds/Adzeisval
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley have had their fair share of Discorporations, some annoying, some embarrassing, all with far too much paperwork. But when they have to watch the other discorporate, thing get quite angsty.





	Discorporation Drama

Both Aziraphale and Crowley found that human bodies took some time getting used to and in the early days both had to learn by trial and error just how much their bodies could take before they were unable to heal or miracle away the damage. 

By the time of Armaged...didn’t happen, Aziraphale would say he had been discorporated a dozen times and Crowley would shrug and guess thirty. 

Both were incorrect. 

Crowley had never really kept track of the early discorporations and there were a few he couldn’t remember at all.

Aziraphale was off his count by just one instance. 

Both angel and demon had had their share of embarrassing discorporations that they would rather not speak of.

That was why Aziraphale’s count was off. It was the only time he had lied on his paperwork to be reincorporated and sent back to work. Aziraphale was in Rome, thinking about moving somewhere north of the area having become tired of Roman lifestyle and scenery. And partially influenced by the fact that the only other immortal he knew, demon though he may be, was rumored to be somewhere in the north. 

He was walking down stairs outside a forum heading toward lunch and had heard that the city of Alexandria had been set to flame, and that the great library there was rumored to be destroyed. 

Aziraphale missed a step and went sprawling down the stairs. In his confusion and panic he couldn’t concentrate on stopping his fall and had landed quite wrong on his neck, finding himself swiftly back in heaven. 

On his paperwork Aziraphale claimed to be stopping a robbery when someone pushed him down the stairs. It was his first lie about discorporation and he swore then and there it would be his last. 

Crowley decided that he quite liked going to the far flung reaches of the world when the daily grind of his usual hunting grounds had grown dull, often when he hadn’t seen Aziraphale in a while. 

When he tempted Jesus with all the kingdoms of the world he had found the variety of wildlife fascinating. He had not been in heaven during the creation of the creatures of earth and wanted to see them all. 

Especially the wonderful variety of snakes. He had modeled his own snake form on the first he had seen but now he wondered if he could change that, not that he had much use of that form anymore. He still loved snakes and really didn’t have anything more interesting to do. 

He found his way to what would eventually be the southwestern portion of the United States when he found a snake he quite liked. It signaled that it was dangerous with a rattling noise made with its tail. Crowley appreciated the drama of it. He assumed that if pressed the snake had poison and would use it if it had to but only then. 

Crowley liked to think he had a good report with snakes and didn’t think he’d be harmed by them. 

He approached one of the snakes too quickly and it bit him. It was a young snake and it used far too much poison. Crowley was surprised to find it was very effective on him and he did not know how to mitigate the poison. 

When he filed his report he claimed it had been a scorpion that had felled his corporation and Beelzebub, looking quite bored with the whole thing, sent him back to Earth with the direction to work harder and stop antagonizing the animals. The humans were what he needed to focus on. 

Crowley vowed that he would never tell a soul what had really happened. 

Most memories of discorporation faded with time, painful and inconvenient when they happened, but in the long run of things not that memorable. 

If pressed both Aziraphale and Crowley had a discorporation that they would claim to be the most difficult. And it wasn’t even one of their own discorporations. They each were most affected by watching the other discorporate. And in both instances they had to help the other one through the process. 

October 25, 1415: France

Crowley was cautiously optimistic that the fifteenth century was going to be better than the fourteenth. He hoped that the fourteenth century was going to be a low point in his life and it was only going to be up from there. But barely fifteen years into the new century and he was handed an assignment that he would rather not do. Or he would rather not do the second part of the task, the first would be fairly easy.

Helping the French win a battle wasn’t going to be an issue, he could turn the opposing English weapons to dust or stop time and reposition things to his liking. That he could do. A bit more direct than he liked to be but with success maybe downstairs would leave him to his own devices. 

The French force that was gathering was at least twice the size of the English, maybe more, and rumors had reached the French camp that a good portion of the English were sick with dysentery. A smaller, sick, starving army of mostly bowmen didn’t really have good odds. 

The second part of the mission was the one he was fearing; he was supposed to kill the English King. The recently crowned Henry the fifth was young and reportedly a good fighter so Crowley didn’t think hoping that someone else would take the King down would be good enough. Well he could hope but he didn’t think he should bet on it. 

He very much wished that he had time to find Aziraphale beforehand and have him cover, but Aziraphale would not want to kill the King either, and it had been a good twenty years since he had seen the angel. 

Crowley just wanted to get the whole thing over with. 

He kept to the outside of the French force and they slogged through the muddy field near the French village of Agincourt. The battle began and Crowley concentrated on finding the English King. 

Crowley made sure to shield himself so that no one could see him but he still had to exert a lot of energy to not get hit by the constant barrage of arrows from the archers. He didn’t put any energy into helping the French fight, they could handle it on their own. Or so he thought. 

Crowley caught sight of Henry, in the thick of battle, it would be easy to sneak up on him. As Crowley watched a sword nearly connected with Henry’s neck, but was stopped at the last second. Crowely inwardly cursed at the man who saved the King. As the King’s savior turned to look for more threats Crowley cursed again. 

Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale was protecting the King. 

Crowley looked around; if the Angel was helping the English then maybe he should be helping the French after all. He had to admit the heavily armored nights were getting bogged in the mud and hit by arrows at an alarming rate.

Crowley heard a cry of pain; not unusual in battle, but this one was familiar and he turned to see Aziraphale fall. Two other knights helped drag him to the edge of battle and left him there. Crowley was frozen. Aziraphale would be able to heal or else he would discorporate and return once heaven saw fit. Crowley did not have to go to him; he would be in dire trouble if he failed both parts of his mission. But the sound of Aziraphale’s cry echoed in his brain and he could think of nothing else. 

He made his way through the mud and hail of arrows to his fallen friend. Aziraphale was breathing hard and fast clutching his stomach. He had miracled the armor away but didn’t seem to be healing.

“Aziraphale?”

Crowley knelt next to his friend and took a closer look at the wound. It was a sword wound to the gut, bleeding heavily but it didn’t look beyond a well crafted miracle. Of course it was possible Aziraphale was in too much pain to concentrate. 

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley grimacing in pain and struggling to speak through it. Crowley frowned in confusion; certainly the wound was not beyond Aziraphale’s power to heal? Crowley didn’t sense anything demonic. 

“Have to...discorporate,” Aziraphale got out at last. 

“What?”

“Have to…,” Aziraphale started then grimaced and cried out in pain. 

“Easy angel, I heard you, you have to discorporate? Heaven’s orders?” Crowley said hoping that it wasn’t the case. Because if it was he was going to have a hard time convincing Aziraphale to heal himself. Crowley groaned as Aziraphale gave a stiff nod. 

“Angel that’s insane, this wound...it’s not going to be quick,” Crowley said. 

“I know,” Aziraphale whispered between panting gasps. Crowley could see the look of determined resolution in Aziraphale’s face, underneath the pain. Crowley was torn. He should heal Aziraphale, but that would get the Angel in trouble in Heaven and if he himself failed his mission to kill King Henry, lost a battle, and healed an angel he was as good as dead. If Hell didn’t destroy him he could kiss his life on earth and Aziraphale goodbye forever. 

Crowley looked out at the battle. The French were losing, and King Henry was still alive. He could still change that, he supposed, but he would have to leave Aziraphale to painfully discorporate by himself. He didn’t want to do that. 

“Crowley…” Aziraphale reached out for his hand, “I...need your help.” 

“Of course,” Crowley said, “I’ll heal…” 

“No!” 

“Then what…” 

“Help me discorporate,” Aziraphale said squeezing Crowley’s hand a pleading look in his eyes. Crowley felt a sinking in his stomach as he realized what Aziraphale wanted. Needed. Crowley didn’t think he could stand to watch Aziraphale slowly discorporate, listen to him beg for mercy. 

But he wasn’t sure he could provide the mercy either. The more Crowley thought about it the sicker he got. How would he do it? He’d never killed anything before, not directly. Of course he wasn’t really killing Aziraphale, just his body. He would be back on earth as soon as he’d filed the proper reports and paperwork. 

Crowley couldn’t even fathom how he was going to do it. A demonic miracle was too traceable, and might have unintended consequences, he wasn’t sure. He had a dagger; he could plunge it into Aziraphale’s heart or slit his throat. But Crowley didn’t fancy doing either; he was quite certain he would never get the sound of Aziraphale choking on blood out of his mind. He wasn’t sure he could properly snap Aziraphale’s neck, couldn’t even imagine suffocating him. Every way he thought of was worse and he could feel himself shaking. 

But he had to do something. Aziraphale had asked for his help, he was suffering. Aziraphale’s breathing was coming in short pained gasps punctuated by short sobs and whimpers. And the blessed stubborn bastard was insistent on discorporation. 

“Crowley…” Aziraphale squeezed his hand drawing Crowley’s attention to his other hand. Aziraphale held out a dagger with his blood covered hand, “Heart.” 

Crowley swallowed hard and took the dagger. Aziraphale directed the dagger to his chest over his heart. Crowley shifted position letting go of Aziraphale’s hand to put it behind his back to get good leverage to plunge the dagger into his friend’s heart.

Crowley was shaking almost as much as Aziraphale, he couldn’t bear looking at the angel, didn’t want to see his reaction and didn’t want Aziraphale to see him crying. 

“I”m sorry Aziraphale,” Crowley said and plunged the dagger in. He tried to ignore the way Aziraphale tensed, the sound of the breath being driven from his lungs, he ripped the dagger free and tossed it aside.

He still couldn’t look at Aziraphale but Crowley pulled the angel into a tight embrace. Luck was with them though and the shock from the new injury, the well placed strike, Aziraphale passed out quickly. Moments later his heart stopped and Crowley felt the angel leave. 

Crowley drew in a shaky breath and laid Aziraphale back. He was surprised to see a somewhat peaceful look on the angel’s face. Still Crowley couldn’t look at it long and stared out to the battlefield. 

It was over. The English had won; the King was safe. Crowley had failed his mission. Hell was going to be angry and he might never see Aziraphale again. Crowley left the battlefield in a daze and made his slow way back to London where Aziraphale would likely return. 

He was summoned to Hell before he reached London. 

“Care to explain what happened Crowley?” Beelzebub asked. 

“I failed Lord Beelzebub, the battle was lost and the King lives. The King I sense will not live long. I was overcome with blood lust. I discorporated an Angel,” he said. It was the only thing he could think to say that might save him and it was somewhat true. 

“Only discorporated?” Hastur asked. 

Crowley shrugged, “Bastard fled before I could get a Damned blade in him.” 

The silence from Beelzebub was deafening. Crowley tried to be calm and not show any fear. He was feeling it, but he hoped that it couldn’t be seen. 

“Fail again Crowley and you’ll suffer for eternity. And if you’re wrong about the King you will pay,” Beelzebub said. The Lord of Hell sounded more bored than anything but Crowley bowed as he left and vowed to keep things quiet for some time.

The instant he was back on earth he found the nearest pub and drank until he could barely see or stand. He had made it back up to Earth and that was good but if the King didn’t die Beelzebub would be after him. He wished he hadn’t claimed that; wished he had stayed away from the battlefield all together. 

There wasn’t much to do for the time being. He awaited his next mission, he drank, and he waited for Aziraphale. 

After a month he began to worry that something had gone wrong. That Aziraphale had been kept in heaven or that somehow he had truly hurt his friend. Or that Aziraphale was angry with him for hesitating. 

A month and a half passed and Crowley was once again drinking by himself when he became aware of a familiar presence. 

“Thought I might find out here,” Aziraphale said. 

Crowley turned toward his friend, relief flooding into him. Aziraphale looked fine; he didn’t look angry. 

“Aziraphale, I was beginning to worry you’d been kept in heaven,” Crowley said. He said it as evenly as his voice could manage, trying desperately to keep his cool. 

“They make the process more difficult each time; they gave me an award for making sure the English won the day,” Aziraphale said. 

“Well it helped that the demon ensured with helping the French was...distracted,” Crowley said. 

Aziraphale looked sheepish, “I do hope you didn’t get into too much trouble.” 

“Not when I told them I discorporated an angel,” Crowley said with a slight shrug.

They ate and drank and spent the rest of the evening together before breaking apart. Crowley felt better about the situation. But he never wanted to have to do that again and he knew it would take a long time to get the incident out of his head; if he ever did. And he didn’t want to have to watch the angel discorporate ever again. 

***

Aziraphale didn’t know how to begin to talk to Crowley about the incident. He had been surprised at the Demon’s reaction. The panic and hesitation that had gone through Crowley on the battlefield. 

And Aziraphale knew it wasn’t because Crowley wanted him to suffer, or didn’t care that he was, it was because Crowley didn’t want him to suffer any more pain than he was already in and didn’t want to be the cause of it. 

Aziraphale felt bad about asking Crowley to do something that he was clearly uncomfortable with. And he was realizing how much he didn’t want to hurt Crowley, how much of a friend the Demon was and that was...alarming and wrong, but not wrong at the same time. 

Confusing. Aziraphale wasn’t sure what he was going to do about the feeling. One he thought he shouldn’t have, but was enjoying very much. 

September 2, 1666: London.

The summer of 1666 had been brutally hot in London, but even as the summer started to turn to fall Aziraphale was not relieved. He was quite certain that once chilly weather returned so would the plague that had devastated the city the winter before. 

Aziraphale tried not to think of it as he made his way to Saint Paul’s Cathedral on the first Sunday of September. He had expected a regular day of sermons and tending to the poor. Instead he learned that the night before a fire had started inside the old Roman wall and was burning out of control. 

Aziraphale abandoned all plans he had for the day to investigate and see if there was anything he could do to help, divine or not. 

By the afternoon the fire was truly out of control and he could not miracle it away without getting in trouble, he was not aware if this was part of the Great Plan, demonic, or mundane. But that didn’t mean he could not help. And help he did. He helped people escape the flames, directed the panicked in the right direction and on occasion halted the fire for a few moments to preserve life. 

Time started to blur. There was nothing but wind and heat and people to save, and the ever spreading fire. It seemed that those in charge were delaying building a fire break, but Aziraphale was hesitant to abandon the common people to see if he could influence the city’s leadership. 

By Monday the whispers started. It was God’s vengeance, it was the work of Satan, it was the Dutch in retribution for recent wars. From what Aziraphale could tell it was none of these things. He didn’t sense anything Angelic or Demonic. He didn’t think it was sabotage either.

People were desperate to get out. Carts and boaters were started to charge exorbitant fees to get people and their things out. By Monday afternoon things were in so much chaos that the gates out of the city were closed. 

Aziraphale retreated to St. Paul’s Cathedral. There were many people there and he couldn’t help but be drawn to those who were trying to preserve printing presses and books in the crypt. 

Somewhere in the darkness Monday turned to Tuesday and the fire raged and the wind picked up. London was becoming the very image of hell, or what human’s thought hell was like anyhow. Fire, ash, the smell of everything burning. 

“Aziraphale, there’s a red haired man looking for you, won’t come inside,” Father Matthew said. 

Aziraphale knew who it was and went as fast as he could outside to meet Crowley. He didn’t miss the look of relief on the demon’s face. 

“Came as fast as I could,” Crowley said, “I was in Scotland.” 

“Didn’t think this was you,” Aziraphale said, “Your people?”

Crowley shook his head, “Don’t think so. Would make sense given the year and all but no, not us. What can I do?”

“Hate to ask but I think we should protect the church,” Aziraphale said.

“Ngk, you owe me one for this angel.” 

Despite his protests Crowley did indeed help keep the flames from the church. But as Tuesday dragged on it seemed like protecting the church could be a lost cause. Aziraphale was desperate to save all the presses and books and the beauty of the church and all those who had sought refuge there. 

As night fell it looked like the cause was lost. The flames were too much and the wooden scaffolding dry and ready to catch. Aziraphale couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He wanted to save everything, wanted to perform a miracle to save the church and the books within. But he had to help the people there flee, that was more important he thought. 

“Aziraphale we have to go!,” Crowley cried out as the church started to catch fire. He felt numb as he walked away, Crowley by his side, and didn’t even know where to go. Getting outside the city seemed the thing to do and when Crowley took the lead Aziraphale let him. 

Aziraphale, Crowley, and about a dozen humans were walking beside partially burnt and still smoldering buildings toward somewhere the was hopefully going to be safe. Aziraphale didn’t know if gates were still closed or not; he didn’t even care if they got out through some demonic mischief by Crowley. He was tired, drained. 

An explosion rocked the building sending glass and fragments of wood raining out and down onto them. Aziraphale was in such a daze he barely managed to keep himself from being hit, but when he looked forward their traveling companions were all safe and quickly moving away. 

“Crowley…,” Aziraphale started intending to thank the Demon when the later sunk gracelessly to his knees. Aziraphale stood in shock, noticing the blood pouring from beneath the hands clenched tightly to Crowley’s throat. 

“Crowley!” 

Aziraphale caught Crowley as he collapsed on his side, pulling the demon into his lap still slightly on his side so Crowley could try to clear the blood from his torn throat as each attempted breath drew blood into his airway. Crowley was shaking, hard, and didn’t seem to be able to heal the grievous wound. 

Aziraphale didn’t think he had the energy to heal Crowley and didn’t even really know what it would do, or if Heaven or Hell would be able to tell getting them both in trouble. Crowley was fighting discorporation, hard. But he wasn’t able to heal, wasn’t able to stop the bleeding. 

Aziraphale knew neither of them would be able to stop Crowley from discorporating.. 

“Crowley, my dear, you need to let go.” 

Crowley turned his head slightly, grimacing and grunting, to look at Aziraphale. Aziraphale could see the fear in Crowley’s serpentine eyes and tried to keep calm, to not show how worried he was. 

Every time Crowley’s hands started to slip from his throat he doubled down on the grip. Aziraphale worked his hand underneath Crowley’s prying them away from the wound. Aziraphale’s hands shook as he did so. 

“Easy Crowley, almost there,” Aziraphale murmured. Crowley started to still, his gasps shorter and further between. Then at last they stopped, in the fire and gloom of burning London Crowley discorporated. 

Aziraphale couldn’t move for several moments. He turned Crowley over laying him down gently even though he knew Crowley was gone from the corporation. It hurt more than Aziraphale thought it would. He chastised himself, firstly it was not permanent Crowley was not dead, and second Crowley was a demon. An enemy. 

Still Aziraphale hoped that Crowley wouldn’t be in too much trouble, that he could talk his way back to Earth. But for the moment he had other things to concentrate on. He still had people to help, London to help. 

It was a month later, sitting in a pub outside the city wall, tired and lonely, that Aziraphale saw Crowley again. The demon must have been searching for him for he came right up and sat across from him. 

“Thought I’d let you know I’m back,” Crowley said. 

“I’m glad, I was worried you’d get in trouble.” 

“Not when I told them I started the fire, and got discorporated by an angel for it,” Crowley said. 

“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale shook his head in mock disdain. 

“Well it being 1666 and all it made sense.” 

“And...the discorporated by and angel was...a little true.” 

“Oh? I don’t really remember.” 

“I...you were fighting it and I lifted your hands off your neck so you’d go faster,” Aziraphale wanted to ask Crowley why he had fought so hard and why he looked so scared but he didn’t want to run him off so soon. 

“Ah,” Crowley said. They quickly diverted the conversation to the rebuilding of the city and what they were going to do next. Aziraphale was glad that Crowley was back and knew one thing for certain; that he did not want to see the demon discorparate again. 

***

Crowley lied all the time, mostly to hell, often to himself, but he tried very, very hard not to lie to Aziraphale. But there were so many things about his recent discorporation that he could not talk about, not now and probably not ever. 

There had been something about it, the thick sulphurous smoke the gloom of burning London, the pain, they had all come together and he had been brutally reminded of Falling. He did not want to think about that; he did not want to talk about that, even with Aziraphale. 

The other thing...the other thing he definitely couldn’t talk to Aziraphale about. If he thought about it he could still feel Aziraphale’s arms holding him, how safe he felt in them, how he wanted to be in them again. That he could feel the concern flowing from the Angel, the love. There wasn’t anything is it could be. Crowley had been in love with Aziraphale for almost forever, and maybe Aziraphale felt the same way. But it was dangerous, even to talk about it would be too dangerous. 

So he would remain silent, to protect them both, and hope things worked out well in the end.


End file.
